


At Least He Touched Me

by shazel64



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shazel64/pseuds/shazel64
Summary: 'He has always been his worst torturer.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I saw a sad post and elaborated on what the OP had written for it.  
> Link to OP: http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com/post/153345142666/sherlock-kept-a-photo-of-john-with-him-during-his

A quick dash to a cab was all it took. Sherlock had lost the picture. He had lost John. All he had been doing was walking. He had been pacing a street in search of a cab. His usual abilities to quickly hail a cab had apparently left him when he had left London. When one had finally pulled over, Sherlock had dashed to it before anyone else could steal it from him. That must have been when he had lost the photo.  
Sitting in the cab, Sherlock tried to remember exactly what the picture of John had looked like. The man had looked a bit tired. There were bags under his eyes. John had tried to conjure up his charismatic smile but all he had managed was something that had looked more like a grimace. John's hair had been ruffled, sticking up in one place as if John had forgotten to pat it down. He assumed it was from the wind outside on the day John had gone to get the picture taken, whatever day that had happened to be. There were some stains. One in the top left. That was the big stain but it missed John's face. The other little stains were on the man's jacket. The one John always wore, with the padded elbows and shoulders. Sherlock had always loved that jacket on John. He remembers wanting to compliment him on wearing it, but never doing it. Sherlock hates himself for losing it.

There were gunshots, off to his right. He could hear the bullets whizzing through the air. The men chasing him were practically animals. They were yelling things, crude things, that made Sherlock's stomach flip. The men were thirsting for his blood, wishing their bullets would rip through his flesh. He stumbled into a clearing and knew that it was over. Sherlock wished they would just kill him. The men rush over to circle him. He notes their sadistic smirks and waits. They want blood. He knows it. Finally, the men rush in and a fight ensues. At first Sherlock tries to fight back, but realizes it is futile. There are six of them and one of him. He is tired, dehydrated, out of breath, and about ready to fall over from malnutrition. He has no chance. So he lets them. He lets them beat him to a pulp. Some part of him thinks that he deserves it.

They threw him into a cold basement without a shirt on. His feet are bare, and he is positive that he has a bruised rib, among other lacerations and injuries he is sporting.  
Sherlock drifts in and out of consciousness. He mostly dreams. Dreams of John. He dreams of what ifs and could have beens. Mostly he dreams of seeing the man again. He imagines that day, and it keeps him going.  
When he is awake is when the real pain sets in. His whole body aches from the beating and the cold makes it worse. He shivers and thinks of moving but realizes he wouldn't make it very far. When he is conscious, he is able to think a bit more clearly through the haze of pain. He thinks of John of course. These thoughts only lead to bad things. He thinks of the lost photograph, and almost experiences panic attacks at the thought of forgetting how John looks. He experiences paranoia; Sherlock no longer trusts the John wing in his mind palace. This physical pain is bearable, but he has never been one to handle emotions well. He has always been his worst torturer. 

In Mycroft's office Sherlock thinks. His thoughts on seeing John again used to be only fiction, something to keep him going, but now it was plausible. Now it is real and it is happening. He is going to see John again. He is going to kiss him.  
Mycroft is droning on about some dull terrorist case while Sherlock imagines. He finds his patience wearing thin. He wants to yell at Mycroft and tell his brother that he doesn't care about any of that. All he cares about is John. Sherlock is about to crack and ask his brother for an updated picture of John already when Mycroft finally hands him John's file. Sherlock has never felt so grateful for Mycroft and the man's endless resources. Sherlock opens the file, and finally sees John's face again. It's been years since he saw a picture of John. He wants to caress the photo, but Mycroft is watching.  
Sherlock raises his fingers to his top lip and imagines what the mustache John has grown will feel against his lip. He decides then that he isn't going to like it, and that he will communicate this to John loudly and obnoxiously, as he does.  
Sherlock takes his time going through the rest of the file, although it is small, there is not much to see. When he reaches the end, he closes it. Sherlock doesn't dream about John touching him. He waits for it now.

Everything went wrong. She wasn't supposed to be there. John wasn't supposed to be proposing. The man wasn't supposed to get mad.  
Sherlock is back at Baker Street, sitting on his table with a first aid kit. He winces as he remembers how his wounds ripped open when his back hit the floor of the Landmark. John didn't know about them. He couldn't blame his John. He could only blame himself. Sherlock felt a tear slide down his cheek as he prepared new bandages for himself.  
 'At least he touched me. I deserve nothing from him any ways.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated. Sorry if this sucks? I wrote it at like 12 am.


End file.
